Living in the Past
by Lemon Row
Summary: Two months after the events in Reichenbach, John receives a letter from Mycroft. It seems they need to have a discussion about the rent.


**Author's Notes: **Confession: I have never actually seen _Reichenbach, _or any of S2 (I know, I'm mentally ill, I have a friend who's helping me through it). That said, I do have a rough idea of some events that may or may not have occurred, based on what I've picked up on fan sites. This fic is built around the following assumptions about the finale, though I have no idea if they are accurate:  
-Sherlock is, of course, not dead  
-Sherlock sent Mycroft a text, asking him to take care of John after his... erm... 'departure'  
-Mycroft may or may not have been in on his faked suicide

I call this a 'post _Reichenbach_' fic in case these are, in fact, spoilers. Otherwise, consider it a fic in which Sherlock has faked his own death, with the above elements being true.

So, with that, I give you this...

[-]-+-[-]

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, John pulled himself up straighter. Crossed his arms tighter- a hangman checking the noose he'd tied. Tried to remind himself why he was so angry with Mycroft Holmes.

Didn't work though, of course. These days there wasn't room for anger in his heart. Wasn't room for much of anything.

Nothing but a grey landscape, an empty canteen, a rubbed-off chalk board in his ribcage now. A void so wide and deep that it could swallow a black hole and still have room left for dessert.

Mycroft didn't wait to be welcomed inside. Tapped against the door twice with his umbrella before pushing the door open. The smile he offered was neither pleasant nor sincere. More of a reflex than anything. "Hello, John."

"Hello," he answered. Short. Clipped. A bullet fired from the pistol of his vocal cords. Likely not the last one he'd be discharging before the end of this conversation.

Standing straight, obviously unaffected by John's attempts at intimidation- _the bastard_ –Mycroft's smile remained pasted between his cheeks. "I assume you wish to speak with me on some matter? Your text, despite being rather vague, suggested as much."

Anger, John might not be capable of at the moment. Annoyance though, _absolutely._ Cemented down onto the bottom of his gut, right next to the brick of resentment that was already there. Both of them heavy and useless, but impossible to discard.

He couldn't stand to be around Mycroft anymore. Couldn't stand to be in the same room as someone who shared Sherlock's DNA, who was still walking and talking and planning quiet world domination while Sherlock himself was dead. Buried six feet under the earth. Trapped in a wooden cocoon, in the damp and the dark. All alone.

Mycroft was here, and Sherlock wasn't.

John stepped forward, pulling a crinkled envelope out of his pocket and passing it over to the other man. "Explain this."

Mycroft knew what he'd been given. He'd sent the bloody thing to John, after all. Still, he went through the process of unfolding it, opening up the flap and peeking inside. His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise as he extracted the sheaf of paper. "It appears to be a cheque, made out to you. Given the average value of property in this area, I'd say it's likely for half the monthly rent at this address."

"Yes. And who is it from?" John quizzed.

Eyebrows lowering from of their somewhat cartoonish altitude, Mycroft met his gaze. "It's from me, John."

Well, at least he wasn't going to drag out his little charade of naïveté. One of John's feet shifted restlessly. Biting at the inside of his cheek, feeling his fist clench and unclench, a hot breath blasted through his nose. "Why?"

"I don't believe it's any of your concern."

"None of my _concern_?" John half-shouted, his voice fragmenting into shrapnel as it ricocheted off the walls and knocked back into him. "You've just sent me a cheque for half the rent, and you think it's none of my concern?"

"Not apart from the trouble of depositing it into the bank, no."

"I don't want your charity," John growled when Mycroft tried to hand the envelope back to him.

"It isn't charity."

"Then _what is it_?"

A quirked eyebrow. Hanging above what almost qualified as a smirk. "It's the rent, John."

"Don't." John shook his head, his jaw tight. "_Don't_…" He took a few breaths to cool down the inferno in his lungs. Giving his opponent a hard stare, he motioned at the bundle of paper. "What are you playing at with this?"

The simple answer, the one he'd jumped to immediately, was that Mycroft was toying with him. Testing him. This was some sort of manipulation. It was why he'd sent the cheque to him in the post, instead of bypassing him completely and depositing the money directly into Mrs. Hudson's bank account. He wanted to see what John would do with it. If he'd put it towards the rent, or keep it to himself, or perhaps even shred it to bits.

Such an explanation didn't satisfy him though. Not completely. It was a bowl of oatmeal when he'd been promised a roast beef dinner.

Mycroft was a sneaky bastard, to be sure. There was no one better at playing chess with the lives of those around him, without ever actually being seen moving any of the pieces around. Probably no one who enjoyed it more, either.

_No one except_…

He wasn't cruel though. And this- sending him half a month's rent with some ulterior motive behind it -_this_ was cruel. Like dangling a sandwich in front of a man who hadn't eaten in two weeks. Pushing a child outside when she'd gotten sunburned just the day before. Forcing someone with a broken leg to hobble up eight flights of stairs.

On the other hand, Mycroft wasn't overly benevolent, either. Meaning that if this wasn't some twisted test, then he wouldn't just _give_ the money to John without expecting something in return, either. Somewhere on the cheque, maybe written in code or visible only with the application of a particular chemical, it had to be there. A request. A demand.

It all left John running in circles through his own head. Unable to find the escape hatch. To grasp the thread that would untangle the knot for him.

"Sit down, John."

Having barely heard him through the confusion crashing between his ears, John looked up at his guest. "What?"

"Please. Sit down," Mycroft said, indicating the tattered red armchair.

As he had at their very first meeting though, John refused the offer. He stayed where he was, feet screwed to the floor, arms cinched around his chest.

A knowing grin spread over Mycroft's face at his defiance, and the other man conceded to be the first to sit. He pulled out one of the wooden chairs from the table, and sank down into it.

John didn't know if he'd made a conscious decision to stay out of Sherlock's seat, but he had half a mind to thank him for doing so. Even after this long, John hadn't been able to bring himself to disturb the green leather throne. Couldn't obliterate one of the last physical imprints of Sherlock's presence in their flat.

Feeling somewhat appeased by Mycroft's gesture, John decided to follow him. Folding himself into the old, battered cushions, and looking across the small measure of space between them, he waited for Mycroft to speak.

"Do you know what my brother's last request was to me?" Mycroft averted his eyes. Looked down at his fingers, which were slowly turning the apex of his umbrella against the floor. "Before he jumped?"

Those three words were enough to batter the levees around the edges of John's eyelids. Tears were threatening to pour out over the walls. He couldn't find words to answer with. Didn't have the strength to push them up through the tight tangle of roots and vines in his chest. Instead he continued to stare at his visitor.

Mycroft glanced up at him, and answered his own question when he saw the helpless look on John's face. "He asked for me to take care of you."

A bomb went off within the confines of his ribcage at that. Clearing out the underbrush that had kept him silent a moment ago. Given room to fly now, a sob threatened to break out of his chest. It made it just to the precipice, diffusing out of his lungs and up his trachea, but he smothered it at the barrier of his vocal cords. He couldn't stand to release it in front of the eldest Holmes brother.

…In front of the _only_ Holmes brother.

Not when _he_ was able to remain so stoic, so nonchalant.

It wasn't really even that extraordinary of a request; Sherlock asking for John to be taken care of. They _were_ best friends, after all. Had been flatmates for two and a half years. If John had relatives that wielded the same power as Mycroft Holmes, he wouldn't hesitate to ask for the same thing.

What got to him was the simple reminder that barely two months ago, Sherlock had still been alive. Walking, talking, and texting. Making requests of his brother. Annoying John almost past the outer edges of his sanity. Preserving human body parts in whatever containers he thought to be most practical, and making every police officer at the Met wonder when modern science would make it possible to access Sherlock's genius without having to actually interact with him.

"Knowing my brother, that could be interpreted in any number of ways," Mycroft said, either unaware of, or purposely ignoring, John's current emotional state. "I believe though that assisting with the rent would fall within the limits of _any_ interpretation."

Collecting himself, attempting to focus his thoughts away from Sherlock and back onto the matter at hand, John clenched his jaw. Dug around in his mind for the arguments he'd had at the ready just seconds ago. Before Mycroft's revelation had derailed all of his thought processes.

Nothing spectacular jumped to the tip of his tongue though. Instead, all he could manage was another hardened statement of defiance. "Well, that's rather nice of you, Mycroft. But my finances are none of your business."

At that, the other man just smiled. Looking sympathetic, if a bit frustrated. "You are a proud man, John. A soldier at your very core, even so long after you were forced into retirement." He moved his hands back up to the stem of his umbrella, twisting them around the polished hook. "I know that it is not easy for you to accept money in this way, when you are not being asked for anything in return. However, I also know that your pension from the army, combined with your modest wage at the surgery, is sufficient to cover only two thirds of the rent here at Baker Street when your other living expenses are taken into account."

John opened his mouth to fire an angry accusation at him- for _actually_ looking into his banking records –but doused it with an extinguisher. Considering who he was talking to, it really wasn't much of a surprise. Mycroft likely wouldn't apologize for it anyway.

"I also know that you've been searching for more stable and lucrative employment recently, but have had little luck. So this… _situation_ of yours… is likely to continue."

Unfortunately, Mycroft wasn't wrong in his assessment. Icy fingers tickled the lower edges of John's diaphragm at the reminder of how inadequate his earnings were. Of the fact that he was quickly approaching the point where he would have to make a decision. Either leave Baker Street for cheaper accommodations, or find a new flatmate.

Neither of those options was very appealing.

Ignoring what his mind and his chequebook were telling him, listening only to the wishes of his heart, meant that vacating his current residence was out of the question. This wasn't just a _flat_. Wasn't just four walls with some furniture stuffed inside that he happened to eat, sleep, and relax in.

This was _home_. It was _his _home.

…_Their_ home.

It had become a part of John as much as he'd become a part of it.

Sherlock was still here, too. Smiling at him in yellow paint on the wall; glaring at him from the scorch marks on the kitchen cupboards. Forever nipping at John's ankles and toes with the piles of books and journal articles that were still scattered everywhere. Causing him to nearly jump out of his skin when he came downstairs every morning to find a mutated frog preserved in a jar of formaldehyde that was _still _sitting on the back of the toilet.

As for finding a new flatmate… it was a task that John already knew would be impossible.

How could he ever find anyone to- god, he hated just _thinking_ the word –_replace_ Sherlock?

Much as all the things about living with Sherlock had bloody _infuriated_ him, at the same time he was finding it quite difficult to function without them.

John didn't want to come home to the smell of a dinner ready to be shared, or the sounds of the telly playing some generic comedy program, or the sight of clean dishes drying in the rack. He wanted the stench of noxious organic compounds, the sound of Mrs. Hudson screeching at Sherlock for inflicting _more_ damage to her property, and the sight of some charred, unidentifiable substance caked on yet another piece of cookware that would be headed for the rubbish bin once the whole concoction had cooled down.

No one else could offer that to him, even if they tried.

Sherlock wasn't just the only consulting detective in the world. He was, quite simply, the only _one_ in the world. The only Sherlock.

"Now, you are clearly committed to living alone from this point forward, which means you no longer require a second bedroom," Mycroft said, toeing his way back into John's awareness. "So I can assume that it is only your memory of… the past… that is keeping you here."

John gave him a hard glare. Silently daring him to breathe even a syllable of criticism for his inability to let go of Sherlock. Be it the man himself, or the home they'd shared together.

"It is only a matter of time though before your financial difficulties win out over your sentimental needs," Mycroft continued. "Until the modest sum you've managed to put into your savings is no longer able to support your living here," he said, giving voice to the thoughts that had been running through John's mind just a moment ago. "And while I've no doubt that Mrs. Hudson, out of sentiment of her own, would offer to decrease the rent so that you could stay on… as a matter of principle- as a matter of _pride_ -you _will_ leave."

"And you're not going to let me do that, are you?" John asked, narrowing one eye at him. His voice was a mixture of resentment and scorn.

"No."

Mycroft startled him with that direct response. His expression was neutral, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of his determination on the matter.

Reaching out, Mycroft laid the cheque, the millimeter thin rectangle that had ignited this entire storm, on the arm of Sherlock's chair. He stood up, set the point of his umbrella down on the floor, and started towards the door. John stayed where he was, gaze cast downwards, too conflicted and- quite honestly –too _worn out_ to continue the debate. Still too irritated with Mycroft to show him the courtesy of seeing him out.

Before the other man's footsteps faded away though, before they began their descent on the staircase, they stopped, shoes scuffing against the carpet. There was a short pause, and the sound of Mycroft sighing.

"It probably won't surprise you to hear that this is the first real home my brother has known since he moved out of the one we grew up in. It was more than I could've hoped for on his behalf. I was starting to think that perhaps…" Another sigh. "The point, Dr. Watson, is that I will not see it lost because of something so…" John could practically hear his lip curling. "_Pedestrian_, as money troubles." Glancing up, he saw Mycroft turn towards him just slightly. "You are the first true friend he ever had." A pause. The hushed sound of his throat being cleared. "I saw him change at your side, John. Bit by bit. Becoming… perhaps not a good man, but a better one. Certainly a more stable one."

John listened without responding. Felt that fiery rumble in his mediastinum that reminded him there really was still a heart there. Took deep breaths and set his eyelids at a rapid pace to hopefully keep the tears at bay.

…Not that there were ever that _many_ tears. One, maybe two at a time. Fiery crystals that burned hot trails down his cheeks until they shattered against his collarbones.

Still, it was more than he wanted Mycroft to see. So he pushed them back. Piled more sandbags at the lower edges of his eyes to keep them immobile, at least until he was alone again.

_So alone._ _Always. _

"Cash the cheque, John. Even if he hadn't asked me to do so, I would still be making this offer. It isn't blackmail, or advance payment for services to be rendered. It is my duty, and gratitude. Nothing more."

With that, he made his departure. Footfalls light, barely audible despite his size and stature.

After hearing the front door close behind him, John reached out and lifted the shard of paper from its perch. Looked down at his name written on the front of it, and the scrawl of numbers that promised to cover what used to be Sherlock's share of the rent.

He hated being so easy to bend in this regard. Hated being this desperate. But he already knew that he was going to deposit the cheque. That after a few more days of defiance, he would accept this gesture from Mycroft, and would continue to do so as long as they continued arriving in the post.

Not just because he couldn't stand the thought of leaving though. Or because he loathed the idea of finding a new flatmate to the point of feeling nauseated.

It was because… if it _did _happen…

If Sherlock managed it. Somehow. Managed to pull off that last miracle. The one John had requested of him at his gravesite…

…If Sherlock ever managed to come home, then John still wanted it- both the building, _and _himself -to be here when he got back.

[-_End_-]


End file.
